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FUGITIVE POEMS 






PREFATORY NOTE 

William Ogilvie, who composed most of the following 
pieces, was born at Knowhead, Marnoch, Nov.. 22nd, 
1798, and died at Ternemny, Rothiemay, April 4th, 
1872. He was essentially, a self-taught man, who in 
his time acquired a considerable acquaintance with the 
best literature of our country. His brother, Dr. John 
Ogilvie, the author of the Imperial Dictionary, had a 
more robust frame, which enabled him to endure close 
application to writing and study. Had William enjoyed 
the advantages of a fuller education it is obvious he 
would have earned for himself no small literary reputa- 
tion. He contributed 'several articles, as well as verses, 
that appeared in the Banffshire Journal between the 
years 1850 and 1865. 



ON THE DEATH OF A FAVOURITE CAT. 



The subject, a humble one, may be excused when it is remembered a similar 
theme once engaged the muse of Gray. 



Ae winter night, as angry lower'd 

The storm, and clouds majestic tower'd, 

And onward aft wi' fury shower'd 

O'er hill and vale, 
Ilk bird and beast in covert cower'd 
Wi' dolefu' wail. 

Some farmers met, and stories told, 
How grain had ris'n, how cattle sold, 
What friend had dug Australian gold 

In massy lumps, 
While down the chimney hailstones roll'd 
Wi' rattling thumps. 

At length the hour to part drew near, 
The neighboors roun, wha cam' to speir 
A' kind o' news, maun homeward steer 

Through wreaths o' snaw ; 
Black was the north, an object drear, 

Quick home they draw. 

Nae glittering star appear'd in view, 
Wi' fitful gusts the tempest blew, 
Wi' wilder scream the muircocks flew, 

By instinct taught 
The blast to shun that must ensue, 

Wi' fury fraught. 



The hailstones beat the yielding ground, 
The loud wind whirls the snaw around, 
Nae glimpse o' light, but gloom profound 

O'er nature reigns, 
Ah, hapless they wha 3 outward-bound, 

Maun tread the plains. 

In this dire hour, a faithful cat, 
The stern foe o' ilk thievish rat, 
Lang at the door wi' patience sat, 

Till near hand blind ; 
To let her in at her soft tap, 

Were nane so kind. 

There's pussy's hole 1 if cold wind blows ; 
Wi' nimble step she thither goes, 

But when in it she thrust her nose, 

O fat she saw ! 
A batch o' rottans right jocose, 

And busy a'. 

Wi' kindling rage her bosom heaves, 
To see the long-tail'd pilfering thieves 
Prey on her master's lusty sheaves, 

And cut the bans ; 
Wi' sudden spring she on the knaves 

Laid teeth and hans. 

But sic a squall, and sic a fright, 
Nae coward rat durst stop to fight, 
While roun' and roun', wi' a' her might, 

Puss dealt forth death ; 
And many a victim lay that night, 

Bereft o' breath. 

1 An opening in the wall, a foot and a half in length and three inches 
in width, purposely to admit cats to destroy vermin. 



Ah, sad mishap, how can I sing 
The fate her zeal did on her bring: 
Amidst the rout a ponderous ring 2 

Fell on her neck, 
Nae dying groan could she forth fling, 

It had sic weight. 

The conqu'ror dead, the bolder few 
Came frae their holes the scene to view, 
Half ventured out, then backwards drew, 

For fear o' chitty ; 
Nae mair that foe will trouble you, 

And mair's the pity. 

Secure ye'll rout through all the barn, 
Nor ever dread approach o' harm, 
The foe that once could you alarm, 

Alas ! is dead ; 
Nor has she left a growing bairn, 

To be your dread. 

Though on her grave is laid no stone, 
Nor by her side a mould 'ring bone, 
Nor kindred cat bestows a groan, 

Or mourns her fate, 
Her master heaves a piteous moan 

O' sad regret. 

W. Ogilvie. 

*A cart wheel, the hoop which projects over the outer end of the nave 
being indented into puss's neck. 



THE POOR TUTOR. 



By William Ingram, Schoolmaster at Cairnbanno, in the Parish of New Deer, 
County of Aberdeen, and a native of Cuminestone in same county. 



Far removed from city splendour, 

Fate has fixed his niggard lot — 
Comforts few, finances slender, 

Care still hovering near his cot. 
Cold and bleak his humble dwelling, 

Hid behind the heath-clad hill — 
Wintry blasts its roof assailing, 

Yet he seems contented still. 

Round him see the rugged mountains, 

Rudely rise from Nature's hand — 
Roughly foam the gushing fountains, 

But they waft no "golden sand/' 
Though he sees in fertile valleys, 

Pomp ajid wealth indulge their fill — 
He can pass the proud man's alleys, 

Smile, and be contented still. 

Sylvan shades in zephyrs waving, 

Softer climes may proudly boast — 
Round his head the tempest raving, 

Scatters hail and polar frost. 
Poverty with these combining, 

Strives each latest joy to chill — 
'Midst such mingled evils joining, 

Yet he seems contented still. 



Trusted with a sacred treasure, 

Parent's hopes to him consign'd — 
Duty is his daily pleasure, 

To expand the infant mind. 
Arduous task, the wanderer tending; 

Checking next the froward will; 
Soothing fear ; the stubborn bending ;- 

'Midst his cares contented still 

Here a blue-eyed cherub weeping, 

O'er the tale of Joseph's woe — 
There a vacant sloven sleeping, 

Dead to feeling's gen'rous glow. 
Thus the poor neglected Tutor, 

Fostering good and curbing ill, 
Looks serenely to the future, 

Smiles, and is contented still. 

When the sun on yonder mountain 

Sheds at eve his parting beam — 
When across the dimpling fountain, 

Morning casts her earliest gleam ; — 
When with peals of awful grandeur, 

Thunder rolls from hill to hill — 
Then the Tutor's seen to wander, 

Scenes like these with pleasure filL 

Mark him, void of ostentation, 

Filling up the destined plan — 
Active in his lowly station, 

Praising God and serving man. 
Conscience whispering approbation, 

Wakes the soul's reviving thrill — 
Every thought is consolation, 

Every passion calm and still. 



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Thus with ardour undiminished, 

Panting for his native skies — 
On he moves till life is finished, 

When he grasps th' immortal prize. 
Then in sight of Salem's splendours, 

Leaving this abode of ill — 
With these words the breath he renders, 

" Father ! I obey Thy will ! 



Note. — The foregoing verses were found in the Scots Magazine by W. 
Ogilvie, and sent by him to the Banffshire Journal to be reprinted. 



VERSES 

WRITTEN ON THE BIRTH-DAY OF THE EARL OF FIFE. 



Again we hail the natal morn 

That gave to these domains a lord 

Of ancient lineage nobly born, 
As Scottish annals well record. 

Auspicious day, so oft returned 
Upon that manly vigorous frame, 

That erst with martial prowess spurned 
The Gaul, and gained immortal fame. 

With laurels won on hostile fields, 
Nought cared he his brow to bind, 

The blessings that the ploughshare yields 
Were more congenial to his mind. 

A wide domain, and blissful home 
Superb, and reared by frugal sires, 

Bid him return and cease to roam : 
More generous motive now inspires. 

His tenants' weal his anxious care, 
Light rents are laid upon the soil, 1 

Of profit left an ample share 
As justly due to work and toil. 

When seasons inauspicious frowned, 
And nipping frosts destroyed the grain, 

And harvest-fields were laid aground, 

And well nigh drowned by floods of rain ; 

1 After the peace, his Lordship caused his lands to be revalued. The result 
was a general reduction of rents. 



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Those years the precious seed was gone, 

Inclement skies had wasted all ; 
From lands where brighter suns had shone, 

A full supply obeyed his call. 1 

For many a year yon lofty dome, 
Towering above surrounding trees, 

Remains his quiet secluded home, 
Which gently fans the passing breeze. 

Green retreats and spreading bowers, 
And shades impervious to the gale, 

And winding paths, o'erhung with flowers, 
Extend along the pleasant vale. 

" The people's peer " bids all to share 

The beauties of the varied scene ; 
The harmless peasant wanders there, 

? Mong groves might charm a queen. 

W. Ogilvie. 



1 In consequence of the successive failures of 1816 and 1817 in many of the 
northern districts, seed was entirely exhausted. His Lordship, with a com- 
miseration most noble, purchased all that was required in the southern counties. 
The following crop being early, such a change of seed proved highly advan- 
tageous. The momentary depression that began in 1819 pressed heavily on 
farmers, and farm stock fell exceedingly low. For two successive years his 
Lordship returned twenty-five per cent, on all his tenants' rents. Those still 
alive who shared in these bounties remember them with gratitude. 



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SYMPATHY 



(From Banffshire Journal of 28th May, 1850.) 



Tho' laurels bind the warrior's brow, 
And fame has told of vict'ries won, — 

The mother's tear, the widow's moan 
Proclaim the tale of human woe ; 

Where trumpets quell the dying groan, 
No tender sympathy can grow. 

Not where the midnight bachanals 
Surround the health-destroying bowl, 

Both wasting frame, and losing soul — 
What fumes arise from filthy stalls, 

Where stretched in dust the drunkards roll, 
Alas ! how sad to see such falls ! 

Not where are seen the proudly gay, 
That bow at fashion's gilded shrine, 

Not where the midnight tapers shine, 
Appears this grace of heavenly ray ; 

Nor can it round that heart entwine 
Where self holds undisputed sway. 

In peaceful bow'rs where passion's storm 
Is hush'd, and smooth as gliding stream 

Flows on beneath the noon-tide beam, 
Sweet as the breath of summer morn, 

Those gen'rous souls who ever deem 
It bless to soothe the heart forlorn. 



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And let us mourn those millions lost 
In superstition's awful gloom — 

Dismal as horrors of the tomb — 
In Asia's clime or Afric's coast ; 

Oh ! let us save them from their doom. 
And grant them blessings we can boast. 



W. Ogilvie. 



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LETTER FROM THE KNOCK HILL TO HIS 
BRETHREN, THE BUCK AND TAP O' NOTH. 



Brothers twain, I've heard your story, 
Each portraying his own glory, 
And giving vent to needless fears, 
For nothing dangerous yet appears, 
'Tis clear to all your dread is vain, 
Of winter's storms and summer's rain ; 
But, as 'tis true, the only feature 
In which we glory is our stature, 
To yield this palm to you I'm loth, 
For I'm the head below you both. 
But of our height we need not boast, 
Full many a mountain top is lost 
In clouds amid eternal snow, 
Where summer breezes never blow. 
To you some counsel, brother Buck, 1 
No danger's near, you're in good luck, 
I'm glad to find you keep your ground, 
Respected by your neighbours round, 
Than whom, although you are not older, 
Your form and your crest are bolder, 
And you extend a long way on, 
Even to the banks of winding Don. 
Two lovely streams flow from your veins 
That fertilize our northern plains, 2 
Now, brother Noth, 3 I'll talk to you. 
Your conic tap I love to view 

1 The Buck of Cabrach is 2368 feet. 

2 The Deveron rises on the west side and the Bogie on the east side. 

■'The Tap o' Noth is 1 851 feet. 



*n 



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In summer clothed with smiling green, 

And finely shap'd as blue Mount Keen, 

With blooming heath your shoulder's bound, 

And fertile fields your base surround ; 

No doubt you've heard the din of arms, 

And been disturbed by war's alarms, 

And ruthless clans in days of yore 

Have stained your slopes with human gore. 

How many cycles of "tomans" 

Have fled since you were trod by Romans, 

Who built a fort upon your tap 

That could not save them from mishap, 

For our brave Caledonian chiels 

Soon made them turn and take to heels. 

Who e'er to you the story told 

That you within are lined with gold, 

I think should make apology 

For knowing no geology, 

My friend, be not at all alarmed, 

There is no fear you shall be harmed, 

Unless, perchance, at future time, 

They should advance a railway line, 

And bore your bowels with tunnel, 

And through you drive the smoking funnel. 

You'd then receive commiseration 

From hills of every rank and station. 

Now let me change my humble lays, 

And speak a little in self-praise : 

My handsome form and elevation, 

Which I received at the creation, 

Are much admired by all who pass, 

And many a tourist with his glass 

Scans me from base to summit ; 

Aye, scientific men with plummet 



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And true measure now have gained 
The height exact by me attained. 1 
A legend of time past runs thus : 
When rival clans made such a fuss, 
And always fought with savage rage, 
Which nought but blood could ere assuage, 
Each on the side of his relations, 
Resenting mutual depredations, 
It happened then, in long past time, 
Up from Bogmuchal and the Boyne, 
Came powerful men, in armour dressed, 
To meet a clan come from the west. 
On my south slope the fight began, 
Though 'twas but brief — the western clan, 
Soon vanquished, turned, and ran. 
The view from me is truly grand, 
Embracing much of sea and land \ 
All who delight in every feature 
Unfolded in the book of nature 
My prospect find a rich repast, 
When hushed in peace the angry blast. 
Even invalids on hands and knees, 
Climb up to breathe my bracing breeze, 
The sailor in his storm-tossed bark 
Finds me a blest terrestrial mark. 
Since pic-nics now are seasonable, 
To meet on me is reasonable. 
Therefore in summer weather fine, 
Large multitudes upon me dine ; 
I always have a stock of fuel 
To cook their tea or w r ater gruel, 



1 One thousand four hundred and nine feet above the sea. 



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And lads and lasses all are happy 

Without a drop of that vile nappy 

Called mountain dew, too smooth a name 

For liquid fire and dangerous flame. 

But, oh ! I sore lament with you, 

My friends, the Sabbath-breaking crew, 

That decline to hear a sermon, 

To misspend God's day determine, 

Rather indulge unhallowed glee 

Than "lift the heart and bend the knee." 

Had I within volcanic fire, 

I'd spout it forth in vengeful ire ; 

Could I command a giant's flail, 

Or thunder cloud with lashing hail, 

I'd hurl them down my lofty steep 

To teach them, with repentance deep, 

To mourn their sins, and mend their ways, 

And come to me on lawful days. 

W. Ogilvie. 



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LINES 

ON THE 

DEATH OF AN ONLY DAUGHTER, 

Who died in child-bed, on 29th January, 1856. 



Ah ! she is gone — our much beloved 
Hath left this world so drear, 

And weeping friends remain behind 
To mourn the stroke severe. 

Ye young and gay, attend the strain, 

Ye who no sorrows know, 
Who whirl in fashion's giddy round, 

Afar from plaint of woe. 

The bloom that mantles in the cheek 

Full oft is doomed to fade, 
The radiant smile of buoyant youth, 

Pale death may soon invade. 

Alas ! she's gone in flower of age 

From kindred here below, 
And loved ones, yet too young to grieve 

At death's bereaving blow. 

A lovely boy, but newly born, 

A fragile bud on earth, 
When reason dawns will weep when told 

The story of his birth. 



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Although 'tis sinful much to grieve, 
We still must feel the pain, 

The shaft is from a hand divine, 
That smiteth not in vain. 

On what she was we fondly dwell — 

So patient, gentle, kind ; 
To form that mind, so sweet, so pure, 

Each Christian grace combined. 

So have we seen the summer rose 

Its bloom unfold to view, 
At rising morn its fragrance breathe, 

Refreshed with heavenly dew. 

A blast swept o'er that lovely flower, 
Then drooped its fading head, 

And smitten by the stormy gale, 
Its bloom and beauty fled. 

By Deveron's gently flowing stream 
She rests in sleep profound, 

Till on that great and solemn day, 
The heavenly trumpet sound. 

Then all shall live no more to die, 
The blest shall feel no pain, 

But borne aloft on angel wings, 
With their Redeemer reign. 



L D J 



W. Ogilvie. 



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